


The Tragedy of the Mind

by lemoncellbros



Series: Macaw's Works [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caretaker John, Johnlock - Freeform, Loving John, Loving Sherlock, M/M, Sad Sherlock, Scottish Yard, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros
Summary: Another late night, another breakdown. Another step into the mundane for Sherlock Holmes as he reflects on another case.





	The Tragedy of the Mind

The human mind is a brilliant, cruel thing. John Watson, as a doctor, had seen the many failings of the mind, witnessed the downfalls of creation at the hands of a single thought. 

Sherlock Holmes’ mind was one of the most amazing ones John Watson had ever seen. His thoughts swam freely, magnificently, while the man behind them drowned in their depths. Lives were saved by the fruit of this mind, but one was drained by every deduction, parroting a bloodletting to sap a body of disease. 

Many people had witnessed Sherlock in his element, spouting deductions like weeds he’d pulled from his mind. Awe surrounded this man, the most brilliant living detective, as he solved the supposed unsolvable, saving the supposed unsaveable.

But there was no esteem in the aftermath of a case, no reverence in the neurosis and violent outbursts that followed a case solved. Only a single soul had ever witnessed the disintegration of an astute mind, the crumbling of a wall of deception; John Watson.

On a particular night in late October, full of sorrow and violent sobs, John Watson of the Fifth North Cumberland Fusiliers stood in the doorway of 221B Baker Street, torn. This last case had been taxing, even on the patrons of the Scottish Yard whose division this was, as a psychopath with a narcissism complex had gone on a murder spree centered around Halloween and himself.

Wildly vague clues had elicited confusion from even the likes of Sherlock Holmes, causing the detective to feel like a failure at the end of the case. And that was how John Watson found himself helpless to the Sherlock, sat on the floor of their living room, glock in one hand and knife in the other.

John sighed at the newly minted gunshots in the wall and the large slash marks marring the couch. Sherlock’s clothes were uncharacteristically disheveled, his normally smooth collar, ruffled. Sherlock’s eyes were blank, his face devoid of emotion. John ran a tired hand over his face and through his hair, finally speaking.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock lifted his head, making careful eye contact with John. “Don’t tell me that it’s alright, John. It truly isn’t.”

John made his way to Sherlock’s side, sliding down to the floor. “I know it isn’t. But you couldn’t have known, Sherl. You’re brilliant, but you’re not god. It’s not up to you to know everything.”

Sherlock chuckled, a cruel, humorless thing. “Isn’t it John?” His head lulled to the side, carefully resting on John’s shoulder.

“It’s not your responsibility! Why do you torture yourself for something you could never have known?”

“How does it feel to lose a patient, John? My incompetence cost lives today, lives that could have been saved had I not been like this!” Sherlock practically growled the ending of that sentence.

“Like what, Sherlock? A mortal man?” John’s voice was gentle, spoken like a prayer.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air in exasperation, “Yes, John! A mortal man at the expense of the undoings and downfalls of the common mind. Given the mind of a god and the body of a man, susceptible to disease and emotion!”

John’s features softened, the lines around his face smoothing out. “Emotions are not a weakness, Sherl.”

“But they are! I’m so overcome with feeling, practically blinded by my love for you! It’s infuriating, to feel.” Sherlock’s teeth were bared as he spoke, making him resemble a cornered animal.

John sighed, leaning farther into the couch. “Is it so horrible to love me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock lost all semblance of a hostile animal, his crazed expression shifting to one of hesitant apology.

“Yielding to my affection for you was one of the greatest choices I’ve made. My mind is a prison, and it is only for you that it opens.”

John pulled Sherlock into an embrace, Sherlock’s head resting in the crook of his neck. With strong arms surrounding him, a steady heartbeat beneath him, Sherlock felt the need to rest his mind.

Though the human mind is truly the most terrifying weapon in nature, it is the only that can feel the true companionship and love.


End file.
